


Cracks Under The Surface

by TsarinaTorment



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo: Scott Edition [4]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Ice Skating, Near Drowning, falling through the ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25793626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TsarinaTorment/pseuds/TsarinaTorment
Summary: History likes to repeat itself, and the human brain likes to find patterns.
Relationships: Scott Tracy & Jeff Tracy, Scott Tracy & Virgil Tracy
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo: Scott Edition [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1841482
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Cracks Under The Surface

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ak47stylegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ak47stylegirl/gifts).



> For "Bad Things Happen Bingo: Scott Edition", the prompt 'falling through the ice' featuring Jeff and one of the boys (requested by ak47stylegirl).

Ice skating was fun. Ten-year-old Scott loved it, loved gliding across the smooth surface as fast as he could go, just enough for the wind to ruffle his hair and chill his cheeks. Dad took him out as regularly as he could in the winter, when the lakes froze over enough for him to play. It was something just between the two of them – John had the bad habit of falling over all the time, Virgil preferred to sit still and draw the scenery, and Gordon was too young for their parents to dare strap blades to his feet.

"Be careful, Scott!" Dad warned as he ran ahead, skates held by their laces in one hand. It was the first true chill of winter, snow coating the countryside and ice slowly spidering its way across any standing water. Scott had watched the advance impatiently, running to the lake every day to see if it had frozen over yet. Weeks had passed in that fashion, with his daily visits showing more and more ice but still thin and fragile in the middle, water peeking through to taunt the impatient child.

Dad took him to ice rinks, but that wasn't the _same_.

Now, it was December, Christmas was just around the corner, and the lake had finally crusted over in its entirety. Scott had dragged Dad out to it to the day before, tugging on his hand with all the excitement of a child determined to finally get their own way and have some fun.

Dad had inspected it carefully, one hand held out in front of Scott to keep him off the ice as he surveyed it with experienced eyes. "Tomorrow," he'd declared eventually, to Scott's delight, and now it was tomorrow and Dad was being so _slow_ and Scott couldn't wait to get on the ice and feel the chill wind in his hair and the sting of the cold on his cheeks.

A fresh blanket of snow laid over the area, an overnight snowfall adding to the winter wonderland image. The only footprints were those Scott left in his wake, bounding up and down excitedly and running back to Dad when the gap between them got too big.

"Hurry _up_ , Dad!" he complained on his third return to the man's side, reaching out to tug at his arm and pull him along. "You're so slow!"

Dad chuckled, letting Scott set the pace.

"There's no hurry, Scooter," he promised. "The ice isn't going anywhere any time soon." It was cold, their breaths fogging as they left their mouths. Virgil liked to try and huff it into shapes; Scott all but ignored it, no patience for anything that didn't go fast or fly.

The lake was beautiful, pristine with its smooth ice and snowy banks. At the far edge, there were small tracks of some animal, seeking water and leaving disappointed. Scott paid them no attention, throwing himself to sit on the snow to pull on his skates. The seats of his pants grew damp, but he ignored that, too. Beside him, Dad chuckled again and sat down, using his coat as a buffer between his pants and the snow before pulling Scott over to sit on it with him.

"Wet pants aren't comfortable," he reminded him. Scott shrugged, reaching over to snag his right skate and pulling it on before lacing them up tightly and suffering through Dad's checks to make sure they were on properly. As soon as Dad pronounced himself satisfied, Scott surged straight to his feet and ran the last few feet to the ice, well-practiced in balancing on the blades of his skates.

One foot hit the ice, and then he was off like a shot, propelling himself along with an ease born of years of practice.

"Stick to the edges, Scott," Dad warned him, cautiously making his own way to his feet and taking the same steps to the frozen lake, but at half the speed. "You can go further out in a few days."

Scott called back a vague acknowledgement, already approaching the furthest part of the lake. With a laugh, Dad set out in pursuit. He never caught up with Scott; smaller, lighter and nimbler, Scott breezed around the edge and came up behind his father before he'd completed a full circuit, laughing as he spun to face the way he'd come and continued to skate backwards.

"Watch where you're going," Dad reminded him, but Scott smiled at him.

"There's nothing behind me," he replied with all the surety of a ten-year-old who couldn't possibly be wrong. "You'd say if there was."

"It's still good practice," Dad insisted, but he was smiling again, and Scott grinned back at him, holding out his hands for Dad to take as they completed another circuit of the lake, laughing as Scott went faster and faster, trusting Dad to keep up.

One lap later and he pulled his hands back, spinning back around with a little jump just because he _could_ before he was off like a shot again, leaving Dad in a flurry of ice shavings as he raced himself, pushing harder and harder because it was _fun_ , because Scott loved speed and the wind in his hair and the chill on his cheeks.

"Scott, be _careful_!" Dad called out. Scott waved at him as he slipped past, abandoning the simple circuits to carve figures of eight and other elegant shapes on the surface of the ice – it was as artistic as he ever got, grooves spitting out ice shavings as they overlapped again and again.

"I'm always careful!" he called back, arms outspread as he pulled himself into a sudden halt before spinning around on the spot, fixing his eyes on a tree in the distance as Dad had taught him the first time he tried it and ended up so dizzy he almost threw up. That had been a long time ago, though – half his life, and five years felt like a long time to a boy of ten – and now he had the spin down to an art. A very fast, almost frantically so, art that tore delighted laughter from his lips.

He didn't notice the hairline crack beneath him, growing with every rotation as the young ice – thinner near the middle, and Scott had strayed far enough from the land to be dancing on the invisible edge of safety – started to show the strain. His laughter drowned out the quiet noises of icy protest, so it was with no warning at all that after one more spin the ice gave way and deposited him straight down, into the cold waters below.

Scott's laugh turned to a shriek, cut off abruptly by the cold clutching at his lungs and stealing his air, and then he was underwater, skates pulling him down, down, down as he trashed. Thick winter clothes, ideal for keeping a young boy warm during hours of playtime at the coldest time of the year, absorbed water at a frightening rate, making them heavy and sluggish, trapping him inside thick layers that should have protected him while the sturdy, bladed boots acted as leaden weights on his feet.

A particularly frantic kick propelled him up, but he wasn't where he'd fallen any more and the ice was thicker. Lungs screaming for air, panic overwhelmed him as he pushed and shoved at the ice above his head with all his strength. It didn't give at all, nature more than a match for a child whose strength was quickly being sapped by the water and sheer terror of being trapped, couldn't breathe, needed air, _needed air_.

His clothes clung to him tighter, tangling around him and forcing him to stop fighting the immovable ice. Scott thrashed more, knowing that he needed to _get out_ , that his lungs were _burning_ , that he _couldn't breathe._

And then the ice was gone, the water didn't cover his head anymore, and he reflexively swallowed gulp after gulp of air. Water ran down his face and it tasted salty as it reached his lips but Scott didn't care that he was crying, that he was shaking, that he couldn't control his body.

"Scott!" Warm arms wrapped around him, pressing his face into a soft winter coat and stroking his hair. "Scott, are you hurt?" He sobbed into Dad's chest, clinging to his clothes with trembling fingers that wouldn't listen to him properly. "Let's get you off the ice." The arms moved and then Scott wasn't standing anymore, his legs instead dangling down as Dad scooped him up in his arms and carried him away from the lake and back to solid ground.

He burrowed into the warmth, uncaring that Dad's arms were wet and there were splashes all over his coat, too. Dad was warmth, Dad was safety, and slowly his sobs reduced to sniffles, although he didn't stop trembling.

"Scotty, are you hurt?" Dad asked again, and he managed to shake his head. Not hurt, just cold and scared and _he'd thought he was going to die_. "Okay, stay awake for me. Can you do that, Scooter? Stay awake and we'll get you home and warmed up." Scott nodded silently, and if possible Dad's grip got even tighter. "That's my boy."

Dad sounded sad and proud all at the same time, but Scott barely noticed. He was cold, so cold, with his clothes sodden and the chill of the winter air clinging to him in a way he'd enjoyed not five minutes earlier. Now, all he wanted to do was escape it, burying deeper into Dad's warmth and closing his eyes.

"No, Scotty, stay awake." Dad jostled him slightly, and he sounded scared so Scott peeled his eyes open again, eyelashes clinging together. "You can't sleep while you're cold."

Scott shivered.

"We're nearly home, Scott. Stay awake just a little longer." Scott hadn't realised Dad was running, but the man was panting and it took longer than that to get to the lake, he thought. But then, the black edges to his vision were increasing and he wanted to stay awake because Dad said so, but he was so, _so_ , cold and so _tired_.

"No, Scotty," Dad insisted. "See, home's right there." He peeled his eyes open at the unspoken request but he couldn't see anything, just blurs and the ever-growing blackness.

Warmth rushed over him and he slipped away.

_Crack._

Fifteen years later, on a mission to help some lost hikers he hadn't even found yet, that was all the warning Scott got before the ice beneath his feet – supposedly _firm_ , thick ice that should easily have taken his weight – splintered and plunged him into the frigid depths of the river below. A scramble for his grapple was abruptly cut off by the shock of the cold; their uniforms were good, but not infallible, and a sudden dunking in water still stole the breath from his lungs. He had barely enough time to gasp in a mouthful of air before the water closed above his head and the river took him.

Don't panic. Don't struggle. Conserve energy, conserve heat. Strict lessons drilled into them by Gordon on what to do in the event of suddenly finding themselves in cold water ran through his brain. Gordon had thrown him into the pool unexpectedly over and over again until the training had stuck – and then carried on doing it anyway, because he was Gordon and loved a prank.

Air. Air was a problem. Scott wasn't Gordon, but he could hold his breath reasonably well under normal conditions. Frigid water and a river churning its way ferociously downstream at a too-fast lick compared to the stillness of the ice perching atop it made it harder. Tossed and turned and churned by the currents, Scott dragged himself under control, working with the flow instead of against it but aiming to get up, _up_ , back to the surface.

Bare fingertips glanced off of something solid, smooth and cold. He reached out again, eyes open, and a swirl from the water slammed his palm up against that same solid, smooth, _cold_ thing. Ice. He scrabbled at it, fingernails trying to get a purchase and then he was ten years old again, skates weighting down his feet viciously and panic clawing at his throat.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't find a way up, back out of the ice and the hole he'd fallen through. Ten or twenty-five, ice still refused to break as he pounded at it, black blurring at his vision and lungs burning for a breath he couldn't take.

Dad had saved him last time, but Dad wasn't here, was six years gone into an explosion, and Scott was an adult who still couldn't get himself out of trouble as he pushed and shoved and pounded against the ice while the river pushed and shoved and pounded _him_ further downstream, away from his impromptu entry point and potential exit points.

His air was gone, the cold was sapping his strength even as he mustered it to try and fight his way free, and his vision was dark, falling in and out of black as he clung to consciousness with everything he had. He had to get out, he had to get out, he had to get-

The ice _shattered_ , crashing down all around him but he couldn't fight the water anymore as it tried to carry him away again. He was so cold, so _tired_ , everything was black, he couldn't _breathe_.

His head cleared the water and his lungs were sucking in air before he even registered the change. It was still black, too black to see, but there was warmth around him and he was being moved, pulled out of the vicious water and clear of the ice.

"Scott!"

Dad had saved him when he was ten, and it was Dad's voice again now. Deep, full of love and worry, but it couldn't be Dad, Dad was gone-

He forced his eyes to open, peeling reluctant eyelids apart. Everything was hazy, and still tinged with darkness, but the man leaning over him was unmistakable. Tall, muscular with dark hair and the softest, _warmest_ , touch.

"Dad…" he breathed, eyes sliding closed again. He was cold, so, so, cold, and tired, but Dad was here, so everything would be okay.

"Scott, no!" He was pulled against Dad's firm chest, all warmth and safety. "Stay awake!" Dad sounded worried, and Scott should maybe be worried about that, too, but Dad was here, everything would be okay, and Dad was so warm…

He was scooped up like he was ten years old, and maybe he was, maybe the last fifteen years had all been a dream. Dad's heartbeat echoed in his ear, fast but steady, and his arms were _warm_ and Scott was _tired_ -

Dad jostled him; he was saying words, but Scott didn't hear what they were. His voice was soothing, his heartbeat a lullaby; Scott was cold and so, _so_ tired…

There was an annoying beeping sound and a pinch in his hand that caused part of his brain to stir, recognising the signs as meaning _something_. Reluctantly, Scott opened his eyes and found himself facing a plain white ceiling that seemed to go on for forever. He knew that ceiling, just like he knew that sound and that pinch on his hand.

He squinted, trying to recall where from, and as his brain slowly found itself waking up recognition sparked. It was the infirmary ceiling, a blank canvas they'd begged Virgil to decorate but words like _sterile_ and _hygiene_ bandied around as excuses why paint wasn't allowed. The beeping must be one of the machines, and that pinch was none other than Scott's nemesis – an IV.

What had happened? He pushed himself up into a sitting position, the top layers covering him falling victim to gravity and pooling in his lap. The sight of them, the full compliment of blankets available in the infirmary topped off with a worn old quilt that only saw the light of day when someone was particularly worried, brought back the feeling of _cold too cold_ , and with that came _broken ice_ and _river_ and _rescue_. He shivered.

_Dad_.

Dad had been there, but Scott knew that wasn't possible. Pulling the blankets and quilt closer at the phantom chill in the room, he looked around to a shock of dark hair and his heart skipped a beat before his eyes traced the falling once-spikes and red plaid covering broad shoulders. Virgil looked to be asleep, hunched over with his arms resting on the side of the bed and head resting on those arms, and Scott smiled fondly. Typical Virgil. He'd get a bad back if he slept like that.

Stifling a yawn that crept up on him all of a sudden and clutching his many layers close to stave off the chill he suspected didn't affect anything else in the room, he leaned forwards and buried his hand in his brother's hair. It was already a mess, so it wasn't like he was going to make it any _worse_ like that, and it was also the easiest thing to reach without leaving his cocoon.

Scott didn't like being cold, had long since lost any adoration for a chill wind biting his cheeks. It had started with a sudden dunking into _cold too cold_ water and cemented itself to stay with _roaring snow too loud too fierce Mom!_ The chill in his body could be real, could be the last dredges of his latest encounter with icy water, but it could also be all in his mind, trapped in a memory of the past.

It wouldn't be the first time.

When Virgil slept in his bed, waking him was a task left to the loser of whichever bet or competition was held with three brothers scurrying to be not it while the fourth watched from space with an amused smile playing on his lips and an adamant refusal to mess with the middle brother's alarms. In his bed, the bear hibernated, cocooned up in blankets because Virgil didn't like the cold either, and left his cave only when the sun was high in the sky and there was enough coffee in the house for the air to taste of it.

When Virgil napped in the infirmary, holding a bedside vigil for whoever had ended up there this time, he woke easily, snapping to awareness in a single blink of deep brown eyes, and this time was no different. As soon as Scott's questing fingers buried deep enough to reach his scalp, his head was rising and worried brown eyes pinned him with a look that tugged at his heart painfully.

"Scott!" There was relief in his voice, but Scott saw his attention turn to the huddle of blankets he was holding close and the tremble in his shoulders from the maybe-real-maybe-imagined cold. "You were hypothermic," he was told immediately, before hands smoothed out the crumpled quilt and fixed the mess he'd made of his blankets by moving. "What do you remember?"

_Dad_ , but Scott didn't trust his memory because that wasn't possible but it'd happened once before so of course that's what his memory filled in the blanks with. He didn't say any of that, knew it mattered but also knew Virgil would go quiet and pensive and more upset than he'd show. It didn't matter _that_ much.

"I tried to cross the river," he said instead, summoning memories of before, memories he thought were trustworthy, memories before the _cold too cold_. "Life signs put the hikers on the other side, and the ice should have been enough to take my weight." They needed to look into that, find out why it had given when preliminary data said it was thick enough. "But it didn't. The hikers?"

Virgil was still looking at him with those dark brown, pain-filled eyes. "Safe." He didn't offer any more information. "Anything else?"

_Dad_ , but he couldn't have, because Dad was six years gone and it was just his brain filling in gaps because brains liked to do that sort of thing. "Nothing."

"Okay." Virgil still didn't sound happy, but none of them were ever happy when any of them were stuck in the infirmary. He bent down instead and Scott peered over the edge of the bed to see that he was taking his boots off, tucking the laces inside to be neat in a way Virgil only ever was in the infirmary and revealing socks with a hole in the big toe. "You're still cold."

It was an observation, not a question, but Virgil wasn't looking at any readouts, any scans of Scott's actual body temperature. He didn't need to; whether it was real or all in his head, Scott knew he was still trembling and it was a weakness he hated to show, but it was one they all shared.

There was a reason they lived on a tropical island.

"Move over." Scott complied, feeling the IV drag at his hand and wishing he could just tear it out, but Virgil was right there and would replace it before it was even all the way out. Later, when he wasn't so cold.

Virgil clambered in next to him, and two fully grown men in a bed should have been a tight squeeze, especially as neither of them were small – and while Scott's muscles were mostly lithe, Virgil's were bulk – but this was an old routine, and almost as a joke response to his sons' occasional clinginess, Dad had made sure that even the infirmary beds were wide enough to take two reasonably comfortably. Burrowed under the covers, Virgil didn't wait or even ask for permission before snaking his arms around Scott and curling up around him.

He was warm. _Warmth_ with a softest touch, and those observations were familiar, swirling around in Scott's memory just below the surface. Too familiar, and Scott turned his head to see _tall, muscular with dark hair and the softest, warmest, touch_ and realisation doused him with _cold too cold_ like the icy river.

_Dad_ , but Dad wasn't the only one in the family that was tall and muscular with dark hair and a soft, warm touch. Dad wasn't there, was six years gone, but Scott hadn't gone on that rescue alone, followed by the steady presence of his brother and-

He let go of the blankets covering him and clutched at red plaid instead, feeling the yank from an IV needle displeased at the sudden change in position, but that wasn't important because Dad wasn't there but _Virgil was_ , and Dad hadn't pulled him out of the river but _Virgil had_ , and he'd called for Dad but _it was Virgil_.

Virgil's arms tightened around him, strong and steady, but his eyes were still worried and _pained_ and Scott knew he hadn't imagined it.

Alan called him _Dad_ sometimes, when he was half asleep and dreaming and Scott always pretended it didn't happen because his brother never realised he'd said it – pretended it didn't bother him if someone else was in earshot, always looking straight to him to see how he'd react – and Gordon, Virgil, even John weren't immune to turning to the desk with the older man sat at it with _Dad_ on their lips before it died half spoken as they remembered. He ignored it, pretended not to hear it, that it didn't bother him, but that was a lie.

The name sank into his bones, ill-fitting and _wrong_ but etched there all the same. He remembered exactly how many times Alan had said it, half asleep and dreaming and unaware, how many times Gordon, Virgil, John had let a _da_ spit out into the air before remembering themselves and killing it mid-word. It _hurt_ , a fiery blade and icy dagger all at once into his heart, but he'd never let them know that, pretended to shrug them off because that was a pain none of them needed to know about.

And now he'd inflicted it on Virgil. It didn't matter that he'd been barely conscious, hypothermic and probably delirious as well – he'd hurt his brother and it could never be taken back, a wound that would never heal. Virgil _knew_ that pain now, and it was his fault. All his fault.

"When I was ten, Dad took me skating," he said, because there was nothing he could say that could ever make it right but he couldn't say nothing and let Virgil suffer in silence. He'd said he didn't remember what had happened after he'd fallen in, but that was a _lie_ and Virgil had been fishing to see if he remembered saying that word and driving the fiery blade and icy dagger into his heart. He did, and Virgil deserved to know. "The ice was still new and I got too close to the middle. It didn't take my weight. Dad pulled me out."

There was silence, and he looked away, staring at the white ceiling while the blankets, quilt and brother cocooned him in warmth his body wouldn't accept.

"I remember." Virgil's voice was soft but Scott's eyes snapped back to him all the same. He was smiling, but it was melancholic. "Dad almost broke the door when he ran in carrying you." One arm left Scott and the chill started to creep back in, only to be stopped when Virgil snagged the worn old quilt that laid over both of them and brought it up higher, showing it to Scott as though he thought he didn't know it was there. "That was the first time I remember seeing this. Dad was beside himself because you'd fallen asleep and he couldn't wake you but Mom pulled this out of the old blanket box John liked to sit on and wrapped you up in it." His smile brightened, and with it some of the cold left Scott. "It was a bit less threadbare back then and didn't need any help warming you up."

Scott reached for the quilt himself, running the familiar fabric through his fingers fondly. Mom had made it for Dad, a little piece of home to travel the stars with him. A little piece of Mom. It had ended up being shared between the six of them – the husband it was made for and the five sons who each grabbed at it whenever the chance arose, because for them it was a little piece of Dad, too.

"I was a lot smaller back then," he acknowledged, and Virgil chuckled, a deep rumble that Scott felt where they were pressed together.

"We all were." Hand still gripping the quilt, Virgil brought his arm back around Scott, clutching the fabric closer to both of them. "You know," he continued, and Scott heard the shift from fond reminiscing to something softer, quieter. Reassuring. "You're allowed to miss him, too." Scott made the mistake of meeting his eyes. Deep dark brown eyes were filled to overflowing with love, and Scott looked away because he couldn't hold their gaze.

Virgil sighed, sounding disappointed but unsurprised.

"It's okay, Scott," he promised. "I won't lie and say it didn't scare me, but you're home safe and that's what matters."

"But, I-"

Virgil clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling his protest. "But nothing," he said. "We've all done it, and we'll all keep doing it because _we miss him_. Being the oldest doesn't make you immune, and I'd be more upset if you didn't slip up like the rest of us, Scott. It…" He faltered for a moment but his hand was still over Scott's mouth, keeping him from speaking up. "If even _you_ do it sometimes, then that means I don't have to feel bad whenever I do."

Startled, Scott met Virgil's eyes again. They were still filled with love, but there was the deep-set adoration – _big brother worship,_ some kids had called it at school before Scott had shown them exactly why his brothers trusted him so much – that Virgil usually didn't show quite so openly.

_If_ you _can mess up, then it's okay if I do, too._

That hadn't occurred to him, the idea that his brothers were trying to follow his lead on even how to grieve, how to address the elephant in the room that was Dad's accident and the hole it had left in their family. That they felt bad every time they slipped, not because it hurt to say Dad's name, but because _Scott_ didn't slip.

Scott always tried to be strong for his brothers, to lead them in a world that seemed determined to tear them apart, but maybe, in just this one thing, they needed his weakness and not his strength.

Virgil's hand left his mouth in favour of his arm wrapping around him again, and Scott released his grip on red plaid to wrap his arms around his brother firmly instead.

"I'm sorry," he apologised, for the slip but also for being a source of unnecessary pressure he'd never even realised he was exuding.

"It's okay," Virgil repeated, an acceptance and dismissal all at once, and the chill finally began to seep away, leaving Scott with the warmth of his brother and that quilt that was a little bit of Mom and also a little bit of Dad. "It's okay."

**Author's Note:**

> Tsari found Bad Things Happen Bingo and immediately got herself a card to use on Scott. To turn it into an actual game, I'm asking people to pick one of the prompts and a not-Scott Thunderbirds character to write him with and writing based on what I get! [You can see my card on my fanfiction tumblr](https://tsarisfanfiction.tumblr.com/badthingshappenbingo) alongside prompts I've already received if you want to join in the fun (contacting me via tumblr or comment is both fine)! Most of the prompts have had one character requested already, but I'm always up for another (and sometimes it's adding a second character that gives me the spark)!
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Tsari


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